Anger
by HRFan
Summary: Set two weeks after the hotel explosion. Only two or three chapters...yet another ! different take on bringing HR together. I can't get enough of them!
1. Chapter 1

7

**Anger**

**Set two weeks after the hotel explosion.**** Only two or three chapters....yet another (!) different take on bringing HR together. I can't get enough of them! **

**1.**

'Ruth?'

'Yes, Harry', she sighs.

'Has Ros called?'

'No, she is still at the hospital checking in with the Home Secretary.'

'Right. Lucas?'

'Still on his way to meeting Sarah Caufield's replacement. He only left fifteen minutes ago, Harry.'

'Any news from the Russians?'

She grits her teeth. 'Not since you last asked five minutes ago, no.'

'Right. I want you to go back to all GCHQ intercepts, all MI6 reports –hack into foreign services databases if you have to, I don't care about triggering a diplomatic incident, but i want to make sure that..'

'That every single member of Nightingale is either arrested or put under surveillance. So you said. Ten minutes ago. Harry, would you please let us get on with ....'

'I'm off to a security briefing a Downing Street. Any news at all, you call....Tariq, _what?_'

'Sorry, Harry...Sir. Sorry. It's just...you know this sophisticated trace we put on some old contacts of Sarah's? Well, it went dead two weeks ago but I've got something and...'

'Good. Keep an eye on it. He's our best lead. We can't afford to lose him. Report to Ruth every ten minutes while I'm...'

'Every ten minutes? But...'

'Which part of 'every, ten, and minutes' don't you understand? None? Good. I'll see you all at 2pm, meeting room.'

**2. **

Tariq lets out a long sigh. 'Is he always this cranky when an operation goes balls-up?'

However impossible Harry is these days, she can't help feeling defensive on his behalf. 'Well, I wouldn't call it a balls up but...'

'Oh come on. Sure, the Home Secretary is alive, so are Ros and Lucas...but the explosion did kill ten people and we're no way near getting the big fish within Nightingale...'

She rubs a tired hand on her tired face. 'Fair enough. And yes. Harry doesn't take kindly to failure. Especially those he regards as his own. You'd better get going with those traces...'

She turns back to her screen, eyes gritty with exhaustion, her brain unable fully to engage with the task at hand, drained by two weeks of more or less constant work. After losing Jo, it's such a relief that both Ros and Lucas miraculously escaped, unharmed, from the hotel explosion. Especially Ros, who somehow found herself shielded by the Home Secretary's body. Since then, she's putting 15 hours long days on the Grid. She has so seldom seen the inside of her poky flat recently that she probably wouldn't be able to recognise it with all lights on. And Harry....he's so tightly wound up that she fears he will explode at any moment now. Angry, demanding, impatient, with none of the gentleness and kindness she had seen in him since her return from Cyprus.

She shakes her head and sets down to work again, pushing thoughts of Harry aside. _Now is not the time_ _to think about him in that way, and your relationship with him, or non-relationship rather...Now is not the time and so what if it is never the time...you have a job, a place to stay, colleagues you respect, and you no longer wake up every single night with nightmares about George and Nico. Only every other night. There's progress for you. So forget about Harry_.

Somehow she manages to concentrate on the avalanche of data they have had to deal with since the explosion, cheered by Ros' and Lucas' return. She's warmed to Ros, and really, deeply likes Lucas, and the Grid feels so much more vibrant when they are around. So she prepares for the meeting at 2pm with a lighter step, hoping that Harry, who hasn't returned yet from Downing Street, will be in a better mood.

'Tariq, any more feeds on...what's wrong?' she asks sharply.

'It's those traces', he says, very pale. 'I've...'

'Right everyone, meeting room now!', Harry's commanding voice booms across the open plan office, cutting the young man short.

'You can tell me later', she says to the young man reassuringly, worried by how shaken he is, hoping that Harry won't get there first.

As they take their usual places around the table, they are all aware of how tense Harry is. He remains standing, his back and shoulders rigid. 'Right. Downing Street have expressed deep unhappiness with our lack of progress. Actually, deep unhappiness is an understatement. So. What have we got? Ros?'

'The Home Secretary is recovering well. But it'll take another two months before he can go back to work.'

'He won't. Go back to work. Or at least not to that job. Downing Street are already lining up a replacement. Can't say more just yet. But we keep monitoring Lawrence. Keep track of who comes to see him, who phones, who inquires about his recovery....and we check them all.'

'Harry', Ros protests, 'the man almost died...don't you think that...'

Harry shakes his head, impatiently. 'We check them _all._ We leave no stone unturned. I still don't like the way he was parachuted from nowhere as Home Secretary. Lucas?'

'No tips from the Russians. Either they really don't know more about Nightingale than we do, or they have something up their sleeve which they want to keep as a bargaining chip for later.'

'Christ. Bloody Russians playing games. The last thing we need. Keep at it with them. Ruth?'

'Nothing on the known Nightingale members' profiles.' She pauses, and because she is tired, and annoyed with his clipped, abrupt tone, she can't resist the dig. 'I mean, nothing we didn't already know as of 10am this morning when you left.'

He stares at her, not liking her sarcastic, exasperated tone. If she were anyone else, and if he had more time, he would challenge her. He doesn't. 'Tariq? Those traces?' he calls out instead, almost barking the name.

Tariq swallows. 'It's not good, I'm afraid. I was hoping we could bug one of Sara's contact...In case they too are Nightingale members..Malcolm had set up these really sophisticated transmitters which exchange vibes two ways via GPS...a nifty little sytem...'

'In your good time, Tariq. We have all afternoon', Harry interrupts coldy.

Tariq blushes. 'Well. I'm really sorry. Really, really, sorry. But the bugs went dead an hour ago. I mean, really dead. I can't get them back. And I have no idea where this guys are now. He's sort of...disappeared.'

'Disappeared', Harry repeats, in an ominous voice.

'Ye...yes. Disappeared.'

'How come?'

Tariq looks away. 'I....I stepped out for a few minutes to call this girl I met....Libby...We're meeting tonight. The guy was still at home in his pyjamas eating his breakfast...I thought I could... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry', he mumbles, on the verge of tears.

'Are you telling me' – and his tone is rising, and they all know, looking at each other, that the explosion is inevitable. 'Are you telling me that you have lost one of our top suspects because you wanted to talk to your girlfriend? Our best lead?! When I had specifically stressed that we could not, under any circumstances, lose him? Are you telling me', he yells, 'that we are paying you to cock-up something as basic, as elementary, as electronic surveillance, in one of the most important operations this service has ever seen!!? My God, where on earth did they pull you out from! The university of I-don't-give-a-damn-about-my-country but-hey-I'm having-a-great-time playing with all those 'nifty' toys?!'

'Harry', Ros interjects. 'Come on, give him...'

He turns round, incandescent with rage. '_Don't_ you dare interrupt me! As for you, you bloody idiot, this, here, is not some studenty bar where you can show off your technical skills! This is MI5, and we do not, I repeat, do _not_ losethe only lead we have just because we fancy a little chat with our latest squeeze! Do I make myself clear?!' He walks around the table to the young man, breathing heavily. 'I don't have time to fill in the paperwork to send you back to wherever you've come from. So you're staying here for now. But one more cock-up like this, one dodgy wire, one scratchy transmission, I _will _find the time, and believe me, it won't be GCHQ, or MI6, or Special Branch. I'll make absolutely sure to pack you off to patrol the Antarctica for six months with one of our nuclear submarines! Are we clear? Good. Now get out. All of you, back to work. We reconvene here at 6.'

They all file out in silence. He goes back to his office, anger pumping through his veins, desperate for a few moments alone to calm down.

He won't get them.

**3.**

'Ruth. I don't have time now for...'

'How dare you', she says tightly, fists clenched by her side. The door to the open plan is open, and she is vaguely aware that her colleagues have not gone back to their workstations but are hovering nearby, but she is so angry with him she doesn't care.

'Excuse me?'

'How dare you speak to him like this! To all of us for that matter!'

He knows that he's in the wrong, he's already regretting his outburst, but he doesn't want to talk to Ruth about this. Not now. Not when all he wants is get out of the Grid for a few hours, go for a long walk, take her out for diner, have a drink, do the things that normal people do, instead of watching his life disappear down the years. 'Look, Ruth. This really is not the time and...'

'Yes, it is the perfect time, actually, and you will bloody listen! He made a mistake! We all do sometimes! That's no reason lay into him like this!'

'He's got to learn that this is not a game! Where on earth is he coming from anyway?!'

She stares at him hard. 'He was pulled out of GCHQ at the end of his first week there, Harry, having just finished his degree. Double First from Cambridge, by the way. He had to step in Malcolm's s shoes at a moment's notice! And within his first few weeks, he had lost a colleague and witnessed people die! So I'd say he's done pretty well considering. He stepped outside for three minutes. Tops.'

He bangs his fist on the table. 'Never, ever, let your personal life get in the way of the job! Not in the middle of an operation! He has _got _tolearn this, otherwise he might as well leave.'

'Oh. Because _you _never make those sorts of mistakes. Sorry. I had forgotten. You self-righteous hypocrite! Remember your daughter getting mixed up in between Palestinian activists and extremist Jewish organisations a few years ago? You had her put under surveillance just so you could hear the sound of her voice! And Juliet...Christ. Don't get me started on Juliet... your constant rows with her...nothing to do with your personal history with her, of course not! As for Cotterdam...' He's gone very pale, and she stops abruptly. She doesn't want to go there, it's too painful still, too raw, and there are too many people listening in.

'Ruth, I....'

She takes a deep breath. 'I'm not finished. You've been behaving like a bully ever since the explosion. Always angry, impatient, intolerant...so what, Tariq took a three minute phone call! He's also put in 15 hours long days for the last two weeks! As we all have! Well, you know what, Harry. We've had it. _I've_ had it. You carry on like this, you'll lose more than your IT guy, you'll lose your analyst as well! So you might want to think about that!' She gathers her files. 'Oh, and you might want to think about this not-letting-your-personal-life-getting-in-the way-of-the-job thing. If you don't want to end up completely alone, that is. Then again, you probably do. Oh forget it. I'm getting out of here. I need some fresh air', she says through clenched teeth. She walks out, and childishly, but she can't resist it, she slams the door behind her.

**4. **

Tariq looks at Ros, stunned. 'How can she talk to him like that? What? You think it's funny?'

Ros smiles. 'He had it coming. And before you get any ideas into your head, Ruth is the only person here who could get away with it.'

'Oh. Are they...I mean...are they having an affair?', he asks, slowly putting some pieces of the puzzle together.

Ros snorts, fatigue etched on her face. 'Chance would be a fine thing. I wish they would. It'd make our life easier if they could screw some sense into each other.'

Tariq looks away, clearly embarrassed by her crudity. He clears his throat. 'It's nice of Ruth to stand up for me but I don't need her to do that for me. I can do it for...'

'Tariq.'

He looks up, blanching, ignoring Ros' amused expression. 'Yes, Harry?'

'My office. Now.'

He emerges a few moments later, dazed. 'So, what did he say?', Ros asks.

'He apologised. I mean, _really_ apologised. Told me I deserved a bollocking but wished he hadn't got so angry. He even asked me how things were going with Libby. I mean...'

Ros chuckles. 'Oh so he went pastoral on you....well, you'd better prepare yourself for the grilling he'll give you when you fill your permission-to-socialise form.'

'Oh. Does _he _have to sign it, I mean, can't it be you?'

'Nope. It's got to be him. Then again, look at it this way. You're not a proper member of the team until Harry's blown up at you _and _put his nose into your personal life. Welcome aboard.'

Tariq laughs weakly. 'That's one way to see it. I bet he's never blown up at Ruth though', he says shrewdly.

'Correct. Oh. And here is another way to see it', Ros says sweetly. 'If you ever, ever make a mistake like this again...you'll have me to deal with as well. Got it? Good. Now go back to work. And don't forget to call Libby, or whatever her name is, to cancel your date tonight. You're putting in an all-nighter.' Tariq's face falls. 'Tell her to meet you for breakfast on the South Bank. Very romantic, beautiful early winter morning...girls like that', she says, sounding surprised, as if the very concept were alien to her. 'Now. Where has Harry gone? I need to talk to him.'

'He's gone out. Said he needed to run an errand. Do you think he's gone to talk to Ruth?', Tariq asks, the idea of Harry's having any sort of emotional life opening up endlessly fascinating avenues for gossip.

Ros raises her eyebrows. 'Get back to work, Tariq.'

She takes a quick look around. Ruth's handbag is still underneath her desk though her coat isn't: she's gone outside, but not far. Harry's coat has gone too. She smiles to herself. _Thank God we have a roof terrace..._

**5. **


	2. Chapter 2

4

**Anger Ch 2**

**1****.**

She does not pay attention to the bitter, cold, January wind wich seeps into her clothes and bites her face. She is oblivious to the ethereal beauty of London's roofs, covered with snow in the unusually harsh winter. She is only barely aware of the prick of tears under her eyelids. _Well, I've well and truly blown it with him_, she mulls over bleakly. _God knows he deserved most of it but how could I be so unprofessional. He's my boss for Christ's sake. _

_And the man you love_, a weaker, lower but stubborn voice chimes in. _And that's why you're so upset. Because you called the man you love a self-righteous hypocrite, and you hate it when he behaves that way, but you know full well that you won't have the strength to walk away this time. Even if it means living in some sort of emotional limbo..._She cringes at the memory of what she told him – shouted rather – earlier.

She's been here, on that roof terrace, for too long. She needs to get back to work. But the very thought of having to face him now, under the gaze of her colleagues, is just too much. She grits her teeth. _Come_ _on_, _Ruth_, she tells herself, _you've had to deal with far more...you can do this. And he __**did**__deserve it._

She sighs and rubs her eyes, tiredly. She can hear the sound of the roof door opening, and closing. Her shoulders sag. _Not now. Please not now_. _I don't have the strength for this now. _

She does not turn round.

**2. **

She hasn't heard him, it seems. She is bundled up in her thick winter coat, but he can, eyes closed, see the shape of her body, the lovely, full, feminine curves he has come to desire so much that his yearning is a long, drumming, insistent beat which he can no longer ignore. She exudes defeat and discouragement. Tiredness too. His throat tightens.

'Hi', he says softly.

Her face, when she turns round, is expressionless. Her eyes, bright blue in the afternoon sun, stare at him, unblinkingly, and he falters – he who commands so much authority and yields so much power.

She remains silent, and he doesn't know where to begin. Sometimes, the simplest things are often the easiest, he tells himself. 'I'm sorry', he says simply. 'You were right. I've behaved badly. It won't happen again.'

She isn't mollified. Not remotely. 'I'm not the one you should be apologising to, Harry.'

'I beg to differ. But I did have a word with Tariq. He deserved a telling off, but not that kind of telling off.'

She nods, and turns away from him, to face the city once more. Silence descends, tense, awkward, full of unspoken thoughts. 'Is there any way we could get another techie? A more experienced one?' she asks. 'Tariq is great, but he's very young. He needs a mentor.'

'The way Colin had a mentor in Malcolm? Yes. You're right. I did think of it and I will put in a request. But the government is already cutting public spending, and I'm not hopeful we'll get one.'

She sighs. 'Well. We'll just have to help as best we can, then.' She pauses, and then, hesitantly, 'Harry, what's going on? The last few weeks, it's been so hard. So difficult. I've never seen you like this..'

He looks away from her, straight ahead, staring at the city too. He rams his hands in his pockets to ward off the temptation to touch her. 'It's a miracle Ros and Lucas survived', he says, his voice quivering slightly. 'After Jo, after....everything else....I'm just so angry, Ruth. You see...I don't believe for a second that Nightingale is just a bunch of rogue CIA agents. It's too deep. Too much power, too much money....' He clenches his hands into fists, 'Those evil bastards who think they can kill thousands of innocent people to suit their geographical interests...I want them. And I _will _have them.' He faces her squarely. 'I'm sorry for being impatient. Demanding. Bullying. I have no excuse. It's just that I'm terrified that if we don't get to them soon, they'll try again, and succeed this time. I _cannot_ bear the thought, Ruth. I just can't.'

She looks at him, stunned by the intensity and passion in his voice. He radiates it, and his fury too is palpable. She moves close to him. She so desperately want to hold him, but something holds her back, the memory of another time on that roof, when she tried to comfort him, and when he gave no sign at all that he felt her touch. 'I understand', she says simply. 'But remember that you need us, and that we can't work harder than we already are. And on that note...I'd better get back to work.'

She moves away from the balustrade. He says something under his breath. 'Sorry?'

'I don't want to end up alone' he repeats in a low, strained tone.

Her heart skips a beat. 'Harry, I...I shouldn't have said that, it was uncalled for and....'

'But you _did_ say it, Ruth. So you need to know...I don't want to end up alone.' He takes a deep breath. 'But whether I do nor not is not my decision to make. Not anymore. You need to know that too.' He wills her to say something, to respond, something, anything. She raises her hand slowly, towards his arm, his entire body tenses in anticipation of her touch.

Her hand falls away. 'I'd better get back to work.'

He turns back to the city, listening to the fading sound of her footsteps, shoulders sagging with sadness.

**3.**

He winds up their 6pm meeting, his tone and voice measured, calm, authoritative without being strident. Tariq managed to track down Sarah Caufield's contact again, and they have him on a 24 hour surveillance. Who knows what this will yield...'Thanks to all of you', he says tiredly. 'My behaviour these past few weeks hasn't been what you are entitled to expect, and for that I apologise unreservedly. It won't happen again. I promise. Meanwhile...Tariq, no need to stay here all night, since you've got the surveillance back on track. Go home now. All of you in fact. But Ruth...can you organise a rota so that one of us is on call all night here, every day, for the foreseeable future, starting tomorrow? I'll take the first shift myself, tonight. Good. Thanks. See you all tomorrow morning, 8am sharp.'

They file out. He doesn't need to look up to know that Ruth is staying behind, making sure this time that the door is locked. He raises his head slowly, apprehensively, his vulnerability etched on his face.

'Harry...about what you said earlier. There are things _I_ want to say', she starts, resolutely, her fingers playing with the hem of her jumper and betraying her tension.

He shakes his head. 'You don't have to. I didn't mean to embarrass you or...'

'Please. Listen. I know you said you wanted to take the first shift tonight....could we...could we go for a drink at the George? You'd still be close to the Grid. They can page you if they need you.'

He looks at his watch, to give himself some sort of countenance, and a few moments to think. 'You want to go now?'

She nods. 'We need to talk, Harry. We can't..._I_ can't carry on that way. The sooner the better.'

'You make it sound like a death sentence', he says wryly.

She doesn't see the humour in that and she is so tired, so raw with fear, pain and longing, so tense too that she takes his remark as a rebuke, and not for the feeble, nerve-induced joke that it is. She turns away, on the verge of tears. 'I didn't mean to....look. It's up to you. You know where to find me if and when you're ready.'

She is halfway to the door of his office when he catches up with her, his hand on her arm. 'Ruth! I'm sorry. I know this is hard and....yes, let's go for a drink. Let me brief the night team and I'm all yours.'

She takes a deep breath. 'OK. Good. I'll....I'll wait for you at the pub.'

She makes her way to her desk, burnt by the intensity of his gaze on her back, aware that this, now, is make or break time.

4


	3. Chapter 3

2

**Ch. 3**

**This story is going to be longer than I thought...I couldn't resist having a bit more angst. Though I'm afraid that this part is on the wordy side, dialogue wise...**** Thanks for your reviews!**

The pub is mercifully quiet. She's managed to find them a corner table, away from the small crowd at the bar, an alcove almost. She hasn't seen him come in. On her own, her eyes absentmindedly fixed on some point in the distance, she looks lost, unrooted. Sad, really. There's just a glass of water in front of her. On an impulse, he orders two glasses of white wine at the bar, and joins her, heart beating strongly in his chest, mouth dry, hands slightly shaky. 'Hi', he calls out softly. She looks up, and smiles at him, a shy, tentative, diffident smile. 'I hope that's OK?', he asks gesturing at their glasses. 'White wine. How lovely', she says awkwardly.

He sits across her, and for a while they are silent, finding their feet in each other's company, away from the Grid, properly alone at last. It's her call, the ball is in her court, and she doesn't know how to say what she has to say. He is looking at her, drinking her with his eyes, and she remembers that night, so long ago it seems, in a hotel corridor, when she walked away from him.

She meets his gaze. 'What you said earlier. About not wanting to end up alone...' She runs her fingers around the stem of her glass, playing for time. And for all his fears, for that he feels as if he has put himself totally at her mercy by more or less declaring his love for her, he takes pity on her. Instinctively he covers her hands with his. 'Ruth...I didn't mean to say it. It just came out. And I don't want you to feel as if you owe it to me to explain or...God knows you owe me nothing', he adds in a low, pained voice.

She returns the pressure of his hand, her fingers alive to his touch. _To think that the last time we touched each other, properly, was on that dock_, she thinks...._Over three years ago. My God. What kind of future is there for us...._'I have very strong feelings for you', she says simply. 'I always have done.' Joy leapt in his eyes, mixed with wariness. 'But?', he asks tentatively, fully aware that she hasn't talked of love.

She lowers her eyes. 'But you need to understand that three or four times a week, I have nightmares about what happened to George. And about losing Nico...I wake up during the night and......' She can feel his hands moving away from hers, and she clings to them. 'Harry. Don't pull away from me. Please. At least not...not before I've explained.' She collects her thoughts and faces him again. 'In that room, when Mani brought me...you asked me whether I loved him. And I wouldn't tell you. At least not explicitly. But that's because...that's because I didn't love him and I felt disloyal talking to you about him. You of all men...And I felt so guilty.' Tears spring to her eyes. 'He'd given me a home. A family. With him...I learnt again to think of myself as a woman, to enjoy simple things...Sensual things too. And I was happy, after a while. Really, i was. And I'm so sorry if it is painful for you to hear this, but you need to know.' She can feel the tension in his hands, and how tempted he probably is to just get up and go, but the fact that he is still there, listening, gives her hope. 'Because you see....', she continues, brokenly, 'he had my body. And I cared for him. And I loved Nico so much. I still do. But the best part of me, the most important part, my mind, my heart, who I really was....he didn't have them. That part always belonged to you.' She is crying openly now, quietly. 'And I locked it away, thinking that I would never see you again, that I was safe, that he need never know. And he died because I chose not to tell him about my past. And I can't bear it, Harry. I can't bear it that his life was cut short, that Nico is an orphan, because I was too selfish either to tell him the truth, which I couldn't do, or not to get involved with him in the first place.' She stops, tears flowing freely, not knowing what else to say. Except for one thing, which she owes it him, and herself, to say. 'I got angry with you, when he died, because it was easier to blame _you_, than to face up to what I had done. His death wasn't your fault. Mani would have killed him anyway. Just as he would have had Nico killed if Malcolm hadn't convinced that man not to do it. It was _my _fault. And I can't....' She sighs. _One more thing_, she tells herself, _come on, you've got that far, so one more thing_. 'I _love_ you. I want to be with you. But...'

He reaches out to her cheeks and brushes her tears away, and brings her hands to his mouth. 'Oh Ruth....' He closes his eyes, relishing the feel of her fingers against his lips, knowing that it will not last. 'I could tell you that you couldn't make any other choice. Otherwise...what would you have condemned yourself to? A lifetime of loneliness? For my sake? The sake of our country? Of course not...but of course you know that, don't you. At least with your head. But with your heart....with your guts...' He shakes his head and places her hands back on the table, still wrapped in his. 'We can't be together', he says with quiet, sad, finality.

She pulls away, shocked by his bluntless, fresh tears forming in her eyes. 'But we love each other! Can't we...'

'No!'. He takes a deep breath. 'Listen to me. I've loved you for years. And it means so much to me that you feel the same way.... i would like nothing more than being with you, believe me.' He stops, to gather some emotional strength for this. 'I want you so much' - and his voice is strained - 'so much, Ruth, that there times....nights...when it's almost a kind of pain. But I can't have you that way. Not when you're feeling so much guilt and anger.' He grips her hands again, tightly, and meets her eyes squarely. 'In the end, it would destroy us. And the last thing I want...the last thing I want is for you to hate me for the choices _I_ made, or would make if I could do it all again...I couldn't bear that. Right now, I have your love. I don't want to lose it. Not when I thought I could never have it. And if the only way to keep your love is to not be with you...' – he pauses, and then adds, chokingly, 'then so be it.'

'But it will be torture', she whispers, aghast. 'We have to work together every day, we have to...'

'It's the only way.' He strokes her hands, memorising her skin almost. 'There hasn't been anyone else for me, Ruth. Not in eight years. And at my age, frankly, there won't _be _anyone else. Listen. I'm not naive. I know you well enough to realise that part of you will always feel guilty about George and Nico. But if one day you feel, genuinely feel, that you deserve to be happy...that you needn't punish yourself for the rest of your life...and if you still want me...I'll be here. But only on those terms.'

She nods, silently, knowing deep down that he is right, and wise enough for the two of them. She gets up, and wraps herself in her coat tightly. 'I'd better get home', she murmurs.

He escorts her to the door of the pub, so close to her that he can almost feel the imprint of her body on his. He walks her to her bus stop, in silence. As they approach their destination, she places her hand on his arm. 'You don't need to wait with me. I'll be fine. The bus will be along soon anyway.'

He is saddened that she so obviously wants to be on her own. On an impulse, he frames her face in both hands. 'I love you', he whispers, 'never forget that. I love you.' He captures her mouth in his, intently, as if to seal himself on her, and loses himself in the small moan which escapes from her.

One final kiss, and he's gone in the winter night, not looking back.


	4. Chapter 4

4

**Anger ch 4**

**A shortish part...bear with me please...but I have **_**no**_** idea as to how to bring them together. Really no idea at all. So as I wait for inspiration to strike, here is a semi filler. Suggestions welcome by the way! Thanks...xxx**

**Two weeks later.**

**1.**

He looks at his team, assembled around the table, and inwardly marvels at how lucky he is to be leading those top-class agents, even Tariq in fact, who since his colossal blunder has proved himself to be one of the best, most creative techies he's had. _We'll make a Malcolm of him yet_, he tells himself wryly, keenly aware that the young man still needs a mentor but is doing his absolute best. Ros and Lucas are back at full strength, at last. What they need is another field operative. The best team he's had, he reflects, was when Adam was leading, seconded by Ros, with Zaf and Jo as junior fields ops, Malcolm and Colin, and Ruth….As it is, they are under strength. He sighs. Time to begin 'Right. Everyone. We've been looking at every single possible avenue since the blast. We've had every single suspect under surveillance. We've tracked their families, their bank account, their employment history….'

'Zero. Zilch. Nada. Rien', Ros states flatly.

'Precisely. Still…yes, Ruth?', he asks curteously, not quite meeting her eyes.

'Perhaps…perhaps we might have to accept that Nightingale was just that: a bunch of CIA ops running amok. Nothing more…sinister, nothing deeper than that.' He can hear the fatigue mixed with irritation in her voice, he can see it on her face, in her dark-ringed eyes… 'I hear what you're saying', he concedes. 'But I find it hard to believe that a bunch of ops, as you put it, would have the nous and ability to embezzle six _billions_ dollars from the CIA's main account and to use that war chest to trigger a nuclear war between India and Pakistan…somehow it seems…'

'Far fetched', Ros supplies. 'I agree. At the same time, we can't use up all our resources just for Nightingale. We have too little on them, and too many other alerts to deal with. So. We keep minimal surveillance and get ready to upgrade at the first whiff of anything untowards. Everyone agrees? Good. Ruth? A word, please', she says firmly, ignoring Harry's frown.

She leads Ruth to one of the side corridors, away from the others, away from Harry's glare. She leans against the wall and stares at Ruth, and Ruth would find it intimidating were it not for the kindness she sees in her eyes. 'Everything alright?', Ros asks at last.

'Sure. Why?', Ruth demurs, hoping, in vain, that Ros will leave it at that.

'Those last couple of weeks, you've not been yourself. Always tired. Down.'

'Oh, so now you're doing the pastoral bit', Ruth bites back defensively. 'I thought that was more Harry's thing.'

Ros looks at her unflinchingly, noticing the pain in Ruth's eyes, the sadness on her face. 'True', she replies easily, 'though I can easily do that too. But if you'd rather talk to Harry about whatever it is that has been…no? I thought not'.

The two women stare at each other, in a contest of wills which neither can win. 'Ruth', Ros says gently, 'I don't know what's going on between you two. And I'm not sure I want to know, frankly. Though judging by the long face he's been wearing, it can't be good. But I do have to know whether you believe you can still do your job. If you need some time…'

'No. I don't need time off', Ruth cuts in angrily. 'And don't worry, I can still do my job. But if you think I can't, then I'd rather you tell me to my face and not…'

'Oh for God's sake. If I thought you couldn't hack it you'd have been transferred out already. Harry himself would have seen to it, believe me', Ros says ruthlessly. 'No, what I want to know is what you think of your own abilities. I need people who have faith in themselves, Ruth, who can withstand the pressure because they know deep down that they can cope. Can you? Yes? Good.' She should walk off now, and get back to the many files she still needs to go through today, but something in Ruth's demeanour, a sadness which is close to despair, stops her. 'I never thought I would ever say this', she mutters, deeply uncomfortable, 'but have you thought….have you thought of talking to a councellor or something? I mean, you were never properly debriefed after what happened with....with your family.'

Ruth snorts. 'Of course I have. But I can't use someone from outside the service because I'd have to lie about what I do, or make them sign the Official Secrets Act – not a very good start to a therapeutic relationship, don't you think? And I can't go to TRING because they'd be bound to inform Harry and he's the last….' She stops, not wanting to say more to a woman whom, no matter what, she simply can't regard as a friend. 'I'll be fine', she says in a low voice. 'Thanks for your concern but….it's just a bad patch, that's all.'

Ros puts her hand on her shoulder briefly. 'OK. Look, if you need a few moments to yourself…you can go to the rooftop. Yes, I know about the rooftop. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone else, and I'll make sure to keep Harry busy for the next twenty minutes or so.'

She watches Ruth make her way upstairs, with a heavy heart, not really knowing what is happening, sensing though that it will take a lot to bring those two together.

**2.**

'Where's Ruth gone?', Harry asks her, eyes focused on a file, as soon as she enters his office.

'Out', she responds briefly.

'Oh?', he raises his eyes towards her. But she shrugs, not wanting to give it away. 'Harry, about Nightingale, I think that…' She keeps talking, noting the strain in his eyes, the tension on his face. He is more relaxed these days, as if something deep within him had shifted on its axis; he is also infinitely sadder, of the kind of sadness which clings to clothes and permeates the bones like a dreary, fine, autumnal drizzle on a grey afternoon.

He sits back in his chair, going along with her and pretending that there really is need for this mundane talk about things which they have already covered in the meeting. After all, this helps him resist the temptation to go to the rooftop – for of course, it has got to be the rooftop - as he has been resisting the temptation to offer Ruth a lift after work, to suggest they go for a drink, to ask that they have one more conversation about their future, or lack of it. And so far, he hasn't given in, even if it has felt at times as if he would have to chain himself to his desk, and keep his eyes pinned downwards not to look at her through the glass panel of his office. Now that he knows she loves him, it's both easier and harder. Not as easy as he imagined it would be and much harder than he thought. Torture, she called it, and she is right, it _is _torture – of knowing that she so close, and yet so completely out of reach, knowing too that he put her out of reach, first by refusing to buckle under Mani's pressure, and then by telling her, clearly, that he would not have her now. _You made your bed Pearce_, he tells himself grimly day after day. _You made your bed, and you lie in it, knowing that it was the right decsion, and you give her the time and space she needs, even if it means that she will never reach out to you. _But now that he knows, and now that he has kissed her, he can't help wanting more, wanting her fully, wanting to know every inch of her soul and explore every centimeter of her body. His desire for her, so far kept relatively under control, has expanded, leaving him hungry for her touch during the day as they pass each other in the dimly lit corridors of the Grid, and keeping him awake and restless at night as he fails to silence the demands of his body. Yes, torture, and he can't, for the life of him, see any end to it.


	5. Chapter 5

4

Anger ch 5

1.

'Come in!'

'Hi.'

He looks up. 'Ruth...hi. Please, come in.' He wishes he didn't sound so formal, but her demeanour with him these days – constrained, awkward – leaves him no choice. He wishes she would look at him in the eyes properly. He longs to see her smile at him as she used too, eyes sparkling with laughter. He wishes...

'What can I do for you?', he asks instead.

She sighs, inwardly, at his tone – strained, excruciatingly polite. She wishes he sought out her company during work, by lingering at her desk, or sitting next to her. She wishes he would smile at her more. She almost wishes she hadn't confessed her love for him. For the price – this awkardness between them, the ever widening gulf – is too high. 'I want to take my annual leave', she says instead.

He goes very still. 'I see. When?'

'As soon as possible really. I'm...to be honest, I'm exhausted. And things are pretty quiet here...a week today? For two weeks? Would that be OK?'

He stares at her, fighting the urge to take her in his arms and smoothes out the lines of fatigue and worry which mark her face. 'Take two weeks, starting tomorrow', he says simply.

'Tomorrow? But I can't...you'll need...'

'Ruth' – more firmly this time. 'Please. We'll be fine. Honestly. As you said, it's quiet at the moment.' He fiddles with one of his pens. 'Where...are you going anywhere nice? You know that if you're going abroad you've got to fill a form and...', he trails off. _Talking about forms. God_. _That's what we're reduced to_, he says to himself savagely.

She looks away. 'I'm staying at home...potter around. You know.'

'I see.' He expects to leave his office, but she doesn't. She looks as if she wants to say something. He clears his throat. 'Ruth...I...can we talk? Properly? I mean...'

'Harry, I don't think that...' She shakes her head. 'I'm not ready', she says, painfully. As she retreats towards the open plan, he can't resist asking, hating the pleading ring of his voice, 'Will you ever be?'

She stops, her back to him. 'I don't know', she whispers. He can hear the tears in her eyes. He inclines his head towards his desk, wordlessly, and listens to her go, powerless, feeling the knot of anxiety form in his guts.

Because he knows to recognise a lie, and so he knows that she is lying – that she is definitely going somewhere.

**2. **

Four days later, he finds himself in front of a house which he knows he should keep well away from. But after two nights with hardly any sleep, bereft of Ruth's presence on the Grid and in his life, he couldn't take it anymore. He rings the bell, firmly.

The door open. 'Hello Malcolm', he says simply.

'Harry! You shouldn't be here!' And yet Malcolm can;'t suppress the joy and delight in his eyes, in his voice, at the sight of his former boss – his friend, really, to the extent that you have friends in the service.

'Won't you let me in?'

'Yes, of course but...'

'Don't worry. I checked out the area. It's safe.'

He takes in his surroundings. Odd to think that in almost a decade of working with Malcolm, he's not been here once. The house is that of an aging bachelor, but there are touches of warmth all over it – the soft lighting, the piles of books...They sit in the kitchen, in comfortable silence, sipping their tea. He is in no hurry to ask what he knows Malcolm will refuse to do at first.

'Harry. Why are you here?'

He puts his mug on the table, slowly, carefully. 'I need your help.'

'Go on.'

'After you left...Ruth came back to work for us. But...she's taken two weeks off.'

Malcolm stares at him. 'So? Unusual for her but so what?'

'She told me she would stay in London. I could tell straight away she was lying. I've been to her house. Talked to her neighbours...she asked them to feed the cats and they saw her get in a cab with a suitcase two days ago.' He traces the rim of his mug with his fingers, almost obsessively.

'I won't do it', Malcolm says.

'Please. Hear me out.'

'No. I won't track her down. If she decided not to tell you where she's gone that's her prerogative. She's my friend. Well. You know. And I won't help you breach her privacy. No. Way. I don't have the equipment here anyway.'

'B..s.t. Every single techie who leaves the service takes bits and pieces with them. Most of which you they have designed themselves. So I don't begrudge you. But please don't tell me you didn't...'

'All right. All right. Still. I won't do it.'

'Malcolm. Please. You're the only one I can ask...'

And for the first time Malcolm sees how drained, tired, vulnerable Harry is. 'Why is it so important to you to know where she is? Doesn't she have a right to...'

'I can't bear it', Harry whispers. 'I can't bear the thought that she might be out there, somewhere, and that something might happen to her. I...you know, don't you, what I feel for her. What I've felt for so long...'

'She loves you too, you know', Malcolm says kindly, somewhat fazed by this role he is suddenly taking on, of confidant.

'I know. She told me. But...she's still so angry. So sad. I told her we couldn't be together until she resolved that. And now she's gone and...and I'm terrified I've lost her for good this time. What if she had an accident, what...and why wouldn't she tell me?'

Without a word, Malcolm gets up. 'Stay here', he instructs, as he disappears to the room next door. Soon Harry can hear the rapid click of a computer keyboard. He closes his eyes, letting his exhaustion wash over him.

He doesn't know how long it takes. But when Malcolm comes back, with a grim expression on his face, he instantly becomes alert, gripped by dark foreboding.

'You're not going to like it', Malcolm says bluntly.

'What? Where...'

'Cyprus. She's gone to Cyprus.'


	6. Chapter 6

6

**Anger ch 6**

**1. **

She had forgotten about the heat – intense, unremitting, grabbing you by the throat as soon as you get off the plane, bathing your entire body in sweat, opening your pores, relaxing your limbs, slowing you down – paralysing in the middle of the day, exhilarating early in the morning and late afternoon. She'd forgotten about the sea – bright blue with shades of green, the dark patches of rocks visible from the plane, salty, balmy, welcoming you with open arms. She'd forgotten about the sand, burning hot underneath your feet. She'd forgotten about the market smells, the insistent song of the grasshoppers in the cypress trees. She'd about forgotten the men dozing outside their houses after lunch while the women clean and gossip inside. She'd forgotten about the gaggles of children running around the street.

She hadn't forgotten about the narrow, windy path amidst the olive trees, up to George's sister's house. Or the road leading to Nico's school. She hadn't forgotten about George's house – up for sale now – _her _home for two years. She hadn't forgotten about the large, noisy family, who never quite welcomed her, and who do not know yet that she is here.

She knocks on the door, timidly. She hadn't forgotten about Maria's long, dark eyes, and watchful eyes. She hadn't forgotten about her voice – husky, sexy, maternal with her children and protective of Nico, heavily accented when speaking the grammatically perfect English of a Swiss finishing school.

'What are you doing here?'

'Maria...no. Wait. Please.'

The other woman stiffens. 'Has Nico seen you? Have you been to...'

'No, of course not. I haven't been to the school. I would never do that!', she says hotly. She stares back at the woman who, in another world, another life, could have been her sister-in-law. 'May I come in?'

Maria shakes her head. 'No. I don't want you in my house. I don't want you here. You're not welcome. Do you hear? You are not welcome. My brother died because of you. He should never have been with you. Ever. I'd told him there was something strange about you. A woman alone, suddenly arriving here, never saying anything about her past, or when she came from...'

She turns away, stricken, tears prickling her eyes. 'I'm sorry', she says brokenly. 'I'm so sorry. I shouldn't...' But there is one thing that she has to ask, that she _will _ask before leaving. 'How is Nico?'

Maria snorts. 'How do you think?' She pauses. 'Go away, Ruth. Or is that even your real name? Anyway. Go away. And don't ever come back. It's bad enough that we had to deal with this British man', she spits out, 'after George...you people.'

Ruth looks up sharply. 'Which British man?'

'From the consulate. He came here. A few days after the funeral. He had a letter for us. From your government.', Maria says contemptuously.

'Do you still have the letter?', Ruth asks urgently. 'Maria. Please. It's important. Do you still have it?'

Wordlessly, Maria goes back inside, and it is clear that Ruth is to stay there, where she is, outside in the relentless sun. She comes back with a piece of paper. 'There.'

Ruth's throat tightens. She has seen this handwriting so often. _Dear Mrs Stavropoulos,_ _I am writing on behalf of Her Majesty's government to offer their deepest condolences. I wish I could tell you that your brother died for a noble cause. But I cannot tell you that: for he died at the hands of wicked men, caught between forces over which he had no control. Those men are dead now – except for one of them, who is not wicked, and who was forced to choose between the life of your brother and the lives of thousands of other innocent people. I know that man very well. He will always feel guilty, will always ask himself whether he made the right decision, and will always wish he could turn the clock back and not deprive a son of his father, a woman of her brother, and another woman of her husband. I have no doubt that this will be of little comfort to you, if any at all. But at least I want you to know that he died without pain. He spent the last few moments of his life playing football with his son, laughing, smiling, and with no awareness whatsoever of what awaited him. _

_I am not at liberty to tell you more. What I can tell you, though, is that the British government have made provision for your nephew's education. The British Consul in Cyprus will communicate to you the details of those arrangements whenever you feel ready to talk to him. Rest assured that Nico will never lack for anything. That is the least we can do. It is also so little, of course, compared to the loss of his father. Still, do not hesitate to contact the British authorities, via the Consulate, should you or anyone within your family ever need help of any kind. Should that happen, I will be informed, and will personally see to it that you receive it._

Ruth looks up, having deciphered the undecipherable scrawl underneath that letter, eyes glazed with tears. 'Money', Maria says softly, with infinite contempt. 'This man, whoever he is...he thought offering money would...' She can't speak.

'It's not just money', Ruth says brokenly. She knows that she must be careful, that she must take care not to say too much. But this family has suffered so much because of her... 'He is very powerful. And...'

'Well, if he is so powerful why couldn't he protect George!', Maria cries.

'He couldn't do that', Ruth whispers, crucified by the other woman's pain. 'There was nothing he could do. Nothing at all. But...if one day you need something. If...call the Consul. And this man will help. As much as he can. For as long as necessary. Please Maria. For Nico. And take the money. No. Wait. Hear me out. I know that things have been difficult for you financially. That Dimitri's business is not...'

'How dare you! How dare you criticise my husband for...'

'Oh for God's sake. Everyone knows here your husband's business is struggling because he doesn't have the heart to insist that people pay him for his building work! So take the money. Use it to give Nico a proper education. Your own children too. Take it, Maria. This is not the time for misplaced pride.' She pauses. 'I should never have got involved with George. I can't...I can't tell you why he died. Or what I did exactly before coming here. And if I could do things differently, believe me, I would...'

'Why are you here?', Maria asks again, less harshly this time, moved despite herself by Ruth's tears and obvious distress.

'I'm not sure. I think I need to...say goodbye, I think. Don't worry. I won't ask whether I can see Nico...I know it's not possible. But...if one day he asks about me...tell him...' She chokes. 'Tell him I loved him very much.'

Maria nods, without saying a word, and closes the door firmly in Ruth's face.

**2. **

The cemetery is as she remembered it. Quiet, peaceful, the graves well maintained, the olive trees casting their long shadows over the dead. She knows, for having accompanied George to his mother's funeral, where the family tomb is. Her steps grow heavier as she approaches, wiping her sweaty palms on her skirt, heart beating loudly in her chest. The simple words on the headstone undo her. She sinks to her knees, oblivious to the stones biting into her flesh, and bows her head, weighed down with grief and remorse, shoulders shaking.

When she finally rises, having lost all awareness of time, the cemetery is plunged in semi darkness. With a start, she realises that she is not alone by the grave. A man is standing next to her, sorrow etched on his face. 'Kostas!'

'Hello, Ruth'.

She turns away. 'I'm sorry', she says shakily. 'I'm so sorry.'

He sighs. 'Me too. We all are...'

'You're angry. All of you. How could you not be...and you, his best friend...'

He looks at her for a long time. 'Maria is. And Dimitri too. As for me... I don't know what to think. You're a good woman, Ruth. I know that. And I don't understand why you got involved with George, if it was so dangerous.'

'I didn't know', she whispers. 'I'm not a criminal. I worked for the British government. And...I can't tell you exactly why and how I ended up here but...I never thought they would find me. Never! If I'd had the slightest suspicion...I would never have been with him. Ever. Please believe me...'

'I do', he says softly. 'Like I said...you're a good woman.'

She can't help letting a half sob out. 'Nico...'

'Nico is better. People love him. His family. His friends...he still cries for his father, but less often. He also cries for you...but less so too. He's healing, Ruth. Slowly, but steadily.'

She closes her eyes. 'Thank God. Thank God for that.'

'And you? Are you healing?'

The generosity, the kindness in that question, move her. 'No. Not really. How can I...'

He rests his hand on her shoulder, briefly. 'I'm the village priest. So I have to say this...even if I know that you don't believe in God. But...have faith, Ruth. Have faith in Him. He's listening.'

'He's not. If He did, He wouldn't put us all through this', she says bitterly.

'God only gives us the capacity for forgiveness, Ruth. He doesn't out us through things. _We_ make our own choices. You chose to be with George, in good faith, despite your past...despite the fact you didn't love him.'

She draws back from him, tempted to demur, but she knows that she can't lie to this man. 'Did he...did he know?'

'Of course he did. And he made his own choices too, Ruth. He chose to accept what you could offer him. He chose not to question your presence here. It suited him not to ask anything. Because you gave him what he desperately wanted: companionship. A mother for his son. A replacement for the wife he had lost and never stopped loving. As you fully know.'

He lets the words hang in the air. 'You both made choices. And with your choices, you created a life. A family. With secrets. How do you say it in English? Shadows, I think. All those shadows, Ruth...' He shakes his head. 'I know you. If someone else stood here with you, having made the same choices, with the same...results...you would not condemn her. You'd be the first one to understand, and to forgive. Don't let the shadows destroy you.'

She sighs. 'I won't. Well. I'll try not to, anyway.'

He inclines his head. 'But, Ruth...' And this time, his voice is kind, but with a current of steel underneath. 'Don't come back. For Nico's sake...Say goodbye to George, to the island...but don't ever come back.'

Her eyes prickles again. 'I won't. But...' She takes an envelope out of her bag and gives it to him. 'You're his godfather. When he turns 40, and if you think that he would want to know what happened to his father...please give this to him. But not before.' He looks puzzled. 'By the time he turns forty, she says quietly, 'I will quite likely be dead. So will others who were...involved. It will be safe for him to know. And it'll be safe for those people.'

'I might be dead too', he points out.

'In that case, give it to the lawyer. The one who has an office by the fishing port. George used to trust him. Either he or his son is bound to be around in 30 years...Will you do this, Kostas? Please?'

'I will. I promise.'

On an impulse, she reaches out to kiss him. 'Goodbye, Kostas.' She knows she will never see this man again, one of the very few in this tiny community who had accepted her, whose theology studies in England had made more receptive to her, a foreigner, than many others here. One last hug, and he is gone, and she is left alone, with her thoughts, calmer somehow, in front of the grave of the man with whom she shared a life without loving him, almost ready to face the one with whom she never shared but whom she loves unquestioningly.


	7. Chapter 7

2

Anger ch 7

**1. **

The plane begins its ascent, the Mediterranean shimmering underneath, Cyprus soon a small dot behind them. She won't ever ever come back. Her throat feels painfully tight. She came looking for closure. She didn't get it. Instead, she got increasingly bright glimmers of what it would feel like to be able to forgive herself – just as she would deem anyone else in her shoes worthy of forgiveness.

After her visit to the cemetery, she left the village and spent a few days in the town where she had first lived – small enough a town that she felt immediately at home when she got there, large enough that no one would recognise her. And just as she had done three and half years before, she would go swimming every day; she would walk down the narrow and winding streets, would sit at cafés early in the morning and late afternoon, taking care though to avoid those areas where she might be recognised. And at night, alone in her small, white-walled hotel room with old furniture and scented candles, she would think of George, of Nico, of their life together as a family bound by loss and – to use Kostas' words – the shadows of unsaid things and hidden feelings – but a real family nonetheless. She would cry over George, and her part in his death, but less gut-wrenchingly than before. She would remember what it felt like to be in his arms, to wake up in the mornings sated, her body fulfilled. She would remember, and no longer feel desire for him. Instead, she would think of Harry, lying down with her, loving her, the guilt of even thinking about him that way, with George's shadow looming over her, slowly giving way to her growing self-forgiveness.

_I am moving on_, she tells herself as the plane takes her back to England. _And I still feel guilty, part of me always will, but I think that I can make it work with Harry. That I can't punish myself, and him for that matter, for the rest of my life...Harry...I love you so much. I will have to tell you that I came here, to Cyprus...I should have told you but you would have tried to dissuade me, and I didn't have the strength for a fight, and anyway, it was my journey to make...but I will tell you that I was here, that I am beginning to learn that being with you doesn't necessarily mean betraying George..._

By the time they touch down, three hours later, she's made up her mind. She'll drop her things off home, and go to the Grid straight away. She is not due back at work until tomorrow, and she could, in fact, ring him and suggest that they meet after he is done for the day, but she can't wait. She wants to see him, as soon as possible.

**2. **

And yet it doesn't look as if _he _wants to see her. When she comes into the pods, greeted warmly by the whole team, even Ros, who can't help a half sarcastic comment ('couldn't keep away, could you'), he is in his office. He raises his head briefly to see what the commotion is about. But he doesn't get up to welcome her. He shows no sign that he wants to talk to her. He keeps reading his files, making notes, as far as she can tell by glancing discreetly in his direction. Her heart, so full of hopes and promises only two hours ago, sinks. The others notice her sadness, and go back to their desk, not quite meeting her eyes, relieved when Harry finally emerges from his office, and briefly looks at her, then turns away. He calls them all to the meeting room for the daily afternoon briefing. She automatically follow suit, even though she isn't supposed to be here. During the meeting, she can barely take in what is being said. She can only see his coldness towards her, the barely restrained tension in his body, the way he turns away from her when before he would somehow angle himself towards her...

She doesn't understand. She feels scared, afraid, vulnerable. The meeting is soon over. She makes sure she is the first to leave the room. She doesn't want to linger, to be the last one to leave, to make herself more vulnerable still. She goes back to her station, blindly, not knowing what to do with herself.

'Ruth?'

She whips around. He is standing close, his face an unreadable mask. 'A word', he says simply. She makes her way to his office. 'No', he says in a low and flat voice, making sure that no one else can hear. 'Not here.'

By unspoken agreement, they go to the lift. Hands clenched into fists in their pockets. Unable to say anything yet, each lost in their own thoughts. One of them more angry than he can remember being in a long, long time, the other bewildered, confused, with no sense at all of the storm which is about to engulf her.


	8. Chapter 8

**Hi guys...this is the last chapter. Thanks for all your comments! They make it all worthwhile...**

**Anger ch 8.**

They both look at the London skyline for a few moments, unable to break the mounting tension between them. And it is Ruth who gives in first. 'Harry, I...'

'Did you have a nice holiday?', he asks flatly.

'I...there's something I need to say...I...'

'Because for someone who was supposed to stay home', he cuts in coldly, 'you look remarkably tanned. Given how appalling the weather has been here. Spent lots of time in your garden perhaps? Though I should think your garden is a bit short on olive trees', he adds ruthlessly.

She pales. 'You _knew? _How did you find out?'

'It doesn't matter how I found out. What matters is that...'

'Of course it matters! I travelled with one of the passports Zaf gave me when I left...I didn't need to use it at the time...so how on earth did you...My God. Please. Don't tell me that you asked Malcolm...' She steps away from him, shaking with nascent anger.

'I knew you'd lied to me. I needed to know where you were'.

'You had him check up on me? How _dare_ you!', she flares up. 'How dare you spy on me!'

'_Spy _on you? I hate to remind you, Ruth, but when I ask you, as per regulations, whether you are travelling abroad, you must tell me so! I reminded you of the forms you had to fill, and…'

'_Forms?_ You're telling me about forms? What's got into you!' she raises her voice, incensed by his self-righteousness. 'After what happened between us, you go to a former employee and pressurise him into spying on _me_, because of _forms? _Who do you think you are?'

'Your boss!', he almost shouts. 'What do you think? That you are owed special favours because of….because of our…non-existent relationship! My God, Ruth…who do _you _think you are?'

She gapes at him. 'Oh. I see. So if Tariq had gone to Cyprus without telling you….or Ros…you'd be reading them the riot act too…Rubbish. Utter rubbish.' He turns away from her, unwilling to confront her gaze. 'Or', she continues, coldly, ruthlessly, 'if I had gone to….to Luxembourg, you'd also be reading me the riot act. Christ. Listen to yourself….it's got nothing to do with one of your officers going abroad and not telling you, it's got everything to do with _me _going to _Cyprus_! At least be honest enough to admit it!'

'Fine! I'll admit it!', he grinds out, having completely lost control of their conversation. 'And what's wrong with that! Last time you were in Cyprus you had to flee because goons from Indian intelligence were coming after you, and shortly after that your lover died! Do you honestly believe that the people you knew there, Nico's family, George's friends…do you honestly believe they still think that the story you concocted when you first got there years ago is true? Don't you think that they know or guess some of your past? How could you be so stupid, Ruth! Rule number one, never, _ever_ give away who you are and whom you work for except closest relatives! And if strangers find out, stay the hell away from them!', he yells. 'Have the three years of mindless clerical work you did there completely erased basic training?'

'My God', she whispers, 'you've lost your mind…what do you think could have happened? That I would have been kidnapped again? By whom? Who on earth would have any interest in….'

'Oh please. Cyprus is full of intelligence offficers from all over the world. Do you honestly believe that your presence would have gone unnoticed? People talk, Ruth. They talk, they gossip, and those talks and gossips are picked up by harmless looking tourists sitting in cafés and listening in on conversations, except that they are not tourists of course….' He cuts in savagely. ' _Oh, listen, this British woman whose husband died in the UK a few months ago…you know, George, the doctor from the hospital…all very hush hush but apparently she was a spy…well, she is here. No, really? Yes, yes, she is, Pavlos saw her at the market the other day…._that'show it all happens, as you should very well know! You compromised your safety, you compromised the service, you….how could you do this?'

And she remains silent. Because she knows, deep down, that he is right. That she was so focused on her quest for self-forgiveness, on trying to make it work with him, that she failed fully to take into account the risks she was running, and posing to hers. And yet…she won't back down. Not fully. She looks at him. 'I made a mistake. I'm sorry', she says simply. 'But so did you, so don't you dare shout at me for…'

'How many times!', he explodes. 'How many times do I need to apologise for choosing the lives of many innocent over his? This is hopeless….I don't see any point in…'

'That's not what I meant!', she says, aghast. 'Harry…' He looks at her, and her eyes are filled with tears. 'That's not at all what I meant. I meant the letter.'

'Which letter?', he asks warily, anger still resonnating in his voice.

'The letter you wrote to Maria, George's sister…_hand_wrote, in fact. Rule number 2: do not ever, ever write anything which could be traced to you. I'd say handwriting is a pretty clear trace, wouldn't you?' He stares back at the skyline. 'And you practically pointed the finger at yourself, Harry. Remember that bit? About this man who was responsible for her brother's death, and who is not wicked, but will always wish that…'

He keeps staring ahead of him, unwilling, or unable, to face her fully. 'Yes, well', he says at last, 'I shouldn't have done that…it was…unprofessional.'

She shakes her head. 'Perhaps. But it was also human, Harry, just as my going to Cyprus was…'

'Look', he cuts in, 'I'm sorry I shouted at you. I shouldn't have. But….'

She moves closer to him, so close that they are almost touching each other. 'It's not about forms is it…or even about endangering the Service. Or at least not just about that. Is it?'

He swallows. 'No. Of course not. It's just that…imagining you out there…I was so afraid…'

'What were you so afraid of, Harry?', she asks softly.

He turns towards her, his eyes bleak, the lines on either side of his nose deeper than she remembered. 'I was afraid that they would get angry with you. That they would cause you pain' he says in a low, strained voice. 'Mostly…that you would spend all this time crucifying yourself for George's death and Nico's loss…That you would find that you couldn't even begin to forgive yourself….'

She looks down at his hands, holding on to the stone railing so tightly that his knuckles are white. She clasps his fingers in hers and leans against him. 'I needed to go. To say goodbye properly. To walk past the house one last time…to face Maria.' She chokes. 'I didn't see Nico. It wouldn't have been fair on him. But I needed to see his school, one last time…the beach where we used to go swimming. I needed to see George's grave…' His body is tense against hers, his hands stiff underneath her own. 'I needed to do this, Harry, for my sake mostly. But also for _us_. Do you understand?' she pleads.

'Us?', he asks shakily, a film of tears in his eyes.

She raises her hand to his cheek. 'Yes. Us. What did you think? That I'd given up on us?'

He sighs. 'I was worried you'd decide that your life isn't here after all…that despite everything Cyprus really was your home. That George was the man you loved.'

'Oh, Harry….' She shakes her head. 'I couldn't forget about you for three years while I was with him. I love you, Harry…you know that…and that kind of feeling doesn't go away overnight.' She strokes his cheek, unsure of herself suddenly. 'I still feel guilty', she says sadly. 'I always will. But I am slowly learning to forgive myself. And I want to be with you, more than ever. Will you….?'

He frames her face in his hands. 'Tell me this. When we are together…_properly_ together….is there a part of you that will think of him?'

She allows her eyes to meet his, fully, unblinkingly. 'No. Never. Because you see…when I was with him, there was always a part of me who was thinking of you. You're all I want, Harry. All I ever wanted.'

He smiles, a slow, lovely smile which lights up his well worn features, and brings her mouth to his, in a long, deep, passionate kiss, delighting in the way she responds - fully, without restraint, letting years of longing finally burst out of their shell. They pull apart at last, still holding each other. 'It's been a very long time for me', he whispers.

'I know. Don't worry. We'll be fine. I promise.'

He kisses her again, thoroughly. 'You're not supposed to be here today, are you?' he says teasingly.

'No. What do you have in mind?', she replies with a playful smile.

'Early diner. _Very_ early diner.'

'And then?', she asks mischieviously.

He grows serious. 'And then…whatever we both feel is right, Ruth.'

'Whatever?'

'Whatever.'

'Good. I love you, Harry.'

'I love you, Ruth.'

The end.


End file.
